To be heart sore at the drop of a shillelagh,

to feel the sweet breath of the wind ruffle your hair,

to know the dance of life with all its intricate steps,

to be so complex that even Einstein couldn't figure you out,

yet so simple that any child gets you,

to have such a capacity for love that you could fall

into it every day of your life,

quite often with the same person,

to lament the passing of the hours of each day ,

but be still in the contentment of time well and truly spent,

to never fear the loss of composure, for surely that is why

the faeries rule at twilight,

to comprehend the breadth of change in every stock pot,

to find perfection in a shamrock, although

fancier flora prevail,

to never be more or less than what you are,

to comfort and caress where sorrow and affection

make demands,

to walk a while in the sainted Patrick's steps,

unworthy as are our own,

to take the path through the field, forest, or fen,

even when the road to the village lies clear ahead,

to rouse at the whisper of the robin and to stir with the

song of the nightingale.

to believe that all would be right with the world

if you just had the chance to tinker,

to play as hard as you can, though childhood games

are long past,

to never feel a surfeit without sharing the good fortune,

to see phantoms in the moonlight and

banshees behind every bush,

to acknowledge the veracity of old wives' tales and be

grateful for the insight,

to garner praise and then to cast it off,

in the knowledge that your gifts are from above,

to see with your mind's eye what others only dream of,

to know that a derby is more than just a chapeau,

to fine fault with nobody so much as with our own dear selves,

to be both spiritual and spirited,

to seek the pot o' gold over the rainbow, finding the

richness in the journey,

To be Irish, will all that entails, even if only for one day a year,

is a gift of the daoine sidhe•

• the little people over the hills, i.e., the faeries

Carol Anderson

17 March 2008